Sing
by DuncanAndTheSpork
Sometimes I dream about her. I can't remember, but I dream. I'm little, not more than two, and I'm sitting on her lap. We're rocking, steadily, as to a beat. Her hair is long, soft, and it brushes against my cheek, as we rock.
And then she sings. My mother has a low voice, but not grating, mellow. Maybe it's a lullaby. She's a bit off-key, but it doesn't matter, because the song is for me. Because I know she's singing it because she loves me, I can see it in her eyes. Dark brown eyes, soft, like her voice. Soft, like the hair cascading down her shoulders, brushing against me.
But then I wake up.
My first real memory is sitting by the orphanage window, watching the newsies. They grin, and they yell, a hand always on someone's shoulder, supporting the one they themselves are leaning on. And they sing. Sometimes I can hear in their untrained voices what made my mother's song so special. "A mighty fine life", indeed.
When I was old enough, I joined them. I fit in well, and I am happy. "Racetrack" for my love of the games of chance. And when we sing, it doesn't matter that we are off-key, or our young voices crack, because we're singing for each other, for ourselves.
Because she can't do it for me.
by DuncanAndTheSpork
Sometimes I dream about her. I can't remember, but I dream. I'm little, not more than two, and I'm sitting on her lap. We're rocking, steadily, as to a beat. Her hair is long, soft, and it brushes against my cheek, as we rock.
And then she sings. My mother has a low voice, but not grating, mellow. Maybe it's a lullaby. She's a bit off-key, but it doesn't matter, because the song is for me. Because I know she's singing it because she loves me, I can see it in her eyes. Dark brown eyes, soft, like her voice. Soft, like the hair cascading down her shoulders, brushing against me.
But then I wake up.
My first real memory is sitting by the orphanage window, watching the newsies. They grin, and they yell, a hand always on someone's shoulder, supporting the one they themselves are leaning on. And they sing. Sometimes I can hear in their untrained voices what made my mother's song so special. "A mighty fine life", indeed.
When I was old enough, I joined them. I fit in well, and I am happy. "Racetrack" for my love of the games of chance. And when we sing, it doesn't matter that we are off-key, or our young voices crack, because we're singing for each other, for ourselves.
Because she can't do it for me.